


Tiger Strike

by BizarroLand



Category: Original Work
Genre: Español | Spanish, Furry, Gen, Government Agencies, refusal of the call
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:35:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23415409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BizarroLand/pseuds/BizarroLand
Summary: Powered humanity appeared just before the end of World War II, and in the 72 years of its existence has changed the world, its culture, politics, and the progress of science -- seemingly everything but human nature itself. In the early 21st Century, the prosperous nations of the world leverage generations of superheroes to maintain order and promote the idea of a coming Golden Age to their citizens even as the Cold War drags on, and hundreds of millions languish in the chaotic political landscape of the Third World.Into this powder-keg comes one young man, and his indomitable will.





	Tiger Strike

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got this done a few months ago, and frankly I'm sick of just sitting on my work because of some insecurity. This is a new original web-serial, following the adventure of a super-powered whistleblower as he is pursued across the globe. I have a really screwed-up schedule, so don't expect updates more than once every two weeks or so. I'll also be unusual in splitting the work up into 'seasons' and 'episodes' rather than arcs and chapters, despite AO3's software insisting on the latter nomenclature: more a product of wanting buffer room, and my writing always turning out long, than any desire to be special. 
> 
> If you can't understand the Spanish at the end, it's not a big deal. Enormous thanks to those friends of mine on Discord who helped motivate, and inform me!

Eduardo Torres whistled to himself in the near-noon sun, barely noticing the sun's heat as he picked up the fourth log today with a grunt of moderate effort. He awkwardly laid to rest on a gym bench with it in tow, its nicks and flaws familiar by now. His hands, padded and furred and paw-like, shook a little with the exertion of lifting it up and down. He remembered to make each movement brief, but vigorous. Before he knew it, he finished that last set. It was probably not ideal to use logs for the task, given their lack of ergonomic handles and unbalanced density, but he thought they were more impressive to use than barbells, and cheaper than ones of equivalent weight.

His white pelt glistened in the light. There was some soreness, but it was minor and even welcome. The 16-year-old stretched for a few moments, allowing his finger-claws and toe-claws to extend. It wouldn't do to not be limber for his agility training.

There were four logs he used as weights, and six logs arranged upright in divots to his left. The whole open-air thing had been mostly his idea; after local gymnasiums had run out of challenge, and even specialized equipment no longer offered meaningful resistance to his body, this had been the solution. It was just a clearing a ways past the end of his street with what little fitness gear his mother could help buy and some 16-foot-long, 24-inch logs they got on bargain; the latter had been by far more expensive.

He had driven the six agility-training ones into the ground himself, while his mother had dug the divots. The flat ends went up high, higher than some of the treetops, and much higher than the roof of his home and much of the environs. As he extended his claws and began scaling the first one to the top, he could see most of the neighborhoods in this part of the San Juan metro to his east and west, as well as a little of the Bayamon skyline to the north. He relished the feeling of being on top of the world for a while.

Despite the noticeable amount of homes nearby, he didn't worry about being seen; the arrangement was such that he could only be seen as a pinprick among dense foliage, and his power concealed his identity by its nature. No one had yet gone around asking questions about a tiger-boy, at any rate. That suited Ed.

He tensed his legs and judged the distance to the furthest log top and leapt over, landing imperfectly. One of the balls of his feet went over the edge, and the log shook within its divot at the sudden impulse. In an earlier time, Ed would have frozen and panicked, but he just drew in his foot and perched with ease on top, waiting for the shaking to cease before he continued. That time he nailed the landing.

Tigers were not true climbers, he remembered, due to their weight and instincts. But Ed wasn't quite a tiger. So with claws every bit as vicious and a much lighter weight to contend with, he could pull off aerial movement well enough. He continued this practice for a while, taking joy as his technique began to improve. It was also satisfying to have a physical, palpable measure of how far he'd come. As late as two years ago, he would never have dared to imagine he would've done something like this--

"Eduardo! Can you come down? Breakfast is ready!" His mother's accented English made its way to his ears. He'd been transformed for almost two hours, and was nearing his limit. Knowing that, he scrambled back down to ground level and made the highly deliberate effort of thought required to transform. The bodily changes and extra sensations of being half-man, half-cat practically melted inwards and vanished too quickly to see in detail. The pelt of furs vanished into his skin, his tail retracted into his coccyx, and his skull molded itself into a human shape again. What was left was a normal - if tanned and muscled - teenager basking in the sunlight. Being barefoot and shirtless would be the least curious part of it all to onlookers.

As he passed the chainlink side-gate into the yard, wiped his feet on the tattered welcome mat, and entered the cracked threshold to the living room, Ed did wonder whether he was a were-tiger, but to his knowledge, all of the were-creatures of legend had key limitations he lacked. They couldn't control their changes, had to do it under a full moon, often lost self-control, and most importantly didn't have to eat even a fifth as many calories as he had to. He also bore more than a passing resemblance to a certain...

"Already served. I don't even have to remind my boy to clean his plate. Say thank you! This cost eighty dollars, after all." she said, her eyes joining in the wrinkles of her smile. Ed already knew how much of a sacrifice it was. And that unspoken was how she really felt on the inside, that it was a burden to support him this way-- but also that it all didn't matter, so long as it meant he could stand tall and do well in life. A phone call cut her off from saying that, though. 

Ed smiled. He tried not to miss chances to tell her he was doing better than ever. Their home was a typical Latin American suburban dwelling, all told: reinforced concrete, a nearly-flat roof, no basement, one story, and blocky. To be fair, there were three bedrooms and three bathrooms in it, but there was not much _besides_. The entire front of the home was taken up by the 'living room-kitchen' space; a token loveseat and a couch, a television, some tables for crafts and a dining table suited for four, all occupied by the still-steaming meals of _one_ , who was now sitting down to dig into them.

Ed, himself, had long since surmised all the calories he consumed as he cut and scooped out chunk after chunk of reddened, savory rotisserie and crunchy potato by fork went to somehow fueling his ability to turn into a tiger-man for hours at a time. That process had to consume a lot of energy; but, then, he had never heard of any power-user that had to eat enough for a medieval banquet every time they let loose. He was also glad Mom had a membership with a wholesaler. It was hard enough to avoid notice for the huge quantities of food.

Not that he was complaining much; from the physicals, almost _none_ of the weight ever went to body fat, all of it to muscle, he assumed. Ever since that time two years earlier, he'd jumped into fitness regimens and had worked out on schedules to put any bodybuilder to shame: his increasing physical health explained it, as well as the fact he was growing able to keep his tiger form up for longer and longer as of late. And even in human form, he caught people's eyes, this 5'9 teenager looking like he walked straight out of Muscle Beach. The suggestions he was 'roiding, which he often overheard throughout his day, weren't half as annoying as they were amusing.

His appetite did feel outright bottomless at times. Today's 'breakfast' would be… 34,550 calories, all together. Enough to stave off any risk of malnutrition or hunger pangs, the physician had determined, but still not enough to feel anywhere near full. He was already on the second-to-last whole chicken, the rest of the table's space taken up with empty cartons, their chickens gnawed to the bone, and potato crumbs too small for him to bother spearing with his fork. It was very strange how almost none of it seemed to… come back out, when he had to take care of nature's business later on, and his doctor had commented to that effect. At last, he finished and got up to walk to his bedroom. Eager to put in more drawing practice, Ed was stopped mid-stride at the noise of a motor vehicle parking, and a car door opening in the distance. He turned around again just in time to see a dark-skinned and dark-haired woman in business attire climb out of the driver's side of a black sedan and walk to the front gate. A visitor. With a sigh, he continued toward his mother's room.

"Ma, there's someone waiting outside."

***

His mother exchanged a few words with the woman in her clipped, accented English. Only four minutes later Ed was situated opposite her, his back to the large living room window and her on a moved one-person seat. He'd slipped on a white tee, from some national monument gift shop to complement his denims, but that was all. Some government official, he gathered. She smiled as she laid down a bundle of files and folders on the table; some papers were exposed, but Ed made a point to not look at them. Without missing a beat, she extended her right arm with a welcoming expression on her face. 

"Agent Satya. I'm part of the Powered Terrorism Task Force, and I'm here to share a little information, in case you're interested. No rush, you can call us back later." They shook hands. Ed, for his part, was busy thinking through scenarios of how they'd found him out in his head. Through observation, a friend, or someone else? He concealed a frown and just tried to be happy that her smile had sincerity.

"So. I'm not too keen on bothering you for long. I will say the obvious: yes, we know you're powered, and there's no point in asking me how we found out; just rest assured we didn't go outside the law." A very _qualified_ statement, Ed thought. He had a sinking suspicion he wouldn't be very pleased with what she had to say, but she was being mercifully quick to get to her point.

"I'm interested. Go on," he said. And if he were being more honest, he'd frown. There were a few reasons he could think of for a _Powered Task Force_ agent to be visiting him at home, and only one of them was good.

"We don't know anything about your personal life, that I can clarify. But what we do know is the extent of your capabilities. In particular…" She maintained a smile as she slid a paper, a chart with a circular radar graph, over to his side. He took this as a cue to look at it. Most of the text on its top and bottom was medical language he found not worth trying to decipher, but the graph itself seemed designed to facilitate a layman's understanding.

He gathered it was some kind of evaluation for those whose powers tended toward strength or brawn. _Precision: D. Power: C. Distance: E. Endurance: C_. Not very remarkable. He'd grown a little desensitized to such minor ego-boosts. And it didn't seem like anything very new to him: everyone was well aware the WHO's letter rankings were somewhat arbitrary and very broad. These only established him as meeting or exceeding an average human's capability. Half of the verbal metrics were honestly redundant or meaningless to him, and the ones that did have some significance were vague. Hands folded, Ed scanned it for a moment, not expecting anything enlightening-- but his eyes widened at seeing the 'Evolutionary Potential' listed. Many powered across the decades had a set of abilities that, thanks to some intrinsic nature or happenstance, changed amplitude and even altered fundamentally over time. 

Apparently, his ranked an 'A'.

Suddenly Ed's mind reeled as it went over some important cases, like the British folk hero Glamorgan, the infamous terrorist Synchrotron, and some up-and-comer whose name was on the tip of his tongue. Such high ratings in this category had few precedents, could mean almost anything, and as no known individual was ever rated at Evolutionary Potential AA or even AAA - heaven forbid - A was de facto the top ranking. The _t_ _op ranking_ , he reminded himself with growing surprise. He went over scenarios again, this time of what it would mean, and how his power would change. With his thoughts racing like this, he had nothing to say. He nodded lightly toward Satya. She continued: 

"Yeah. We did some more detailed fact-finding, long-range studies, and power-based analyses, and they all came to one conclusion. Obviously, evolutionary potential tends to be inherently unpredictable for one reason or another, but your body - your _powers_ are strange in a way we're only scratching the surface of. You will have noticed that you can only stay in your..." She gestured, looking for a word.

"Tigerform," Ed stated.

"That works. You can only stay in that form for a limited time, right?" Satya continued.

The teenager's eyes narrowed in response. "Thirty minutes when I started, forty-five last summer, two hours now." He noted that looking at today's clock, he'd spent about two and a half hours transformed in reality. He didn't mention it.

"Well, the researchers are calling them your active times. To make things simple, you've been able to stay in that tigerform longer and longer as time goes on, and it looks like the growth is exponential. Or the formula has an exponential term somewhere. I'm no mathematician. But what it _means_ is in the near future, you might get up to however many hours at once. I'm just naming figures that stick out to me from memory: First five, then not long after that, ten, and after an even shorter time, forty-eight, ninety-six..." Satya said, her face now furrowed in concentration and tapping her index on the opposite side's fingers. Ed nodded along; but he already knew where this was going, and it took all his focus not to let that show.

"At some point, this should just mean you can transform and stay that way at all times, in theory. But our analysts say otherwise. So far you've been able to cut these active times short of your own will, right?" Ed nodded, his eyes narrowing. She -- they -- were able to figure out a hell of a lot without ever laying hands on him.

"But after a certain point, the tigerform will 'take over' and become permanent. You'll be stuck that way forever, I'm afraid," Satya said, taking an empathetic tone toward the end. She didn't seem displeased.

So far, Ed had kept it together, but at that the boy's eyes widened again. He stared at his hands for maybe ten solid seconds, processing the new reality. For two years so far, he had kept his power completely under wraps. As far as he knew, no one beside his doctors, his mother, and now some functionaries of the state knew Eduardo Torres, the fitness-crazy boy of sixteen, could transform at any moment from 'just' a human in peak condition to a superhuman half-tiger with a thought. And he'd wanted to keep it that way as long as he'd even known he had the ability, as long as he wanted something resembling a normal career. Being known for powers rather dashed any hopes in that direction one way or another. 

"In other words, at some point in the next few years, I won't be able to pass as a normal human anymore." His face and voice then became downcast in mood. He didn't look Satya in the eye to say this.

"Unfortunately, that's about it, yes. I'm not only here to tell you that; I was assigned to inform you that, if you'd like, there's a Task Force Cadetship position available to you. It's comparable to the military's ROTC programs: supplementing your education and giving you a way to hone your skills for the future, providing good ways to manage the side-effects of having power, and it almost guarantees preferential placement should you choose to become a proper member of the Task Force later. Or 'put on the spandex', as it were." Their eyes met again. Satya seemed like she was reciting from a memorized speech in one way, but she looked _interested_ , adding her own emphasis to each point. She smiled at the mention of spandex. So did Ed. Come to think of it, he struggled to recall anyone, anywhere, who'd actually used it in a costume. How did that stereotype even come about?

"I'd recommend it," she added, sounding cheerful. Her conversational tone indicated genuine enthusiasm. Okay, turning her down would be a tad more difficult thanks to that, so maybe it wasn't _completely_ genuine. 

Unless some miracle happened Ed knew what his answer would be with near certainty, but to buffer that part of the discussion he ventured: "And _if_ I just decide to live out in the open?"

"The reality is, most people are going to react in some way if you're walking around obviously powered. Oh, you won't be treated like a leper, not in today's America," She waved her hand dismissively to make her point. "But it goes far beyond surprise and starting conversations. you and your family will stand a far higher risk of being targeted for criminal activity. Either local bandits or organized criminals who want to eliminate you as a risk, recruit you, or intimidate you... the list goes on." A quiet sigh followed. Not much Ed didn't already know. He nodded, letting her continue.

"And if you become a Task Force member, even out in the open, the risks are far more manageable by virtue of having a support network of the costumed and uncostumed, backup, training, and the gravity of an official title on your side. Among other things." She didn't even need to say it out loud: steady six or even seven-figure pay, contracting to fall back on, lengthy _paid_ vacations, the works. There were countless places in his own life, alone, where the cash infusion would help. Yet it felt mercenary, even thinking about it that way. Beside, Ed noted, having structure in life and a decent place in the social order could be worth far more than cash. He knew that from bitter personal experience.

Yet, like other occupations, Ed knew very well that the life of an active-roster Task Force member was more than hectic. Like the military and law enforcement and some intelligence agencies, the time and effort invested was such that being 'a hero' usually became the centerpiece of one's identity, as well as consuming almost every waking hour of time. It was that way for all the big-timers, for every middle-timer, and even for most of the small-timers in Montana or North Dakota who'd never get a chance to stop a major Queens or Charlotte Amalie-style incident. Certainly, there was some free time left over once the patrols and combats and training and studies and pursuits and joint exercises and any number of other smaller tasks were done with, but not much.

It took the teenager about ten seconds to come up with a response; he couldn't really meet Satya in the eye. He made a heavy, deliberate sigh, and put on a half-sincere smile. A part of him didn't want to speak of his real thoughts, and another part of him felt it wouldn't hurt to say. He certainly had to turn down the offer, still, but how would he guide the discussion there? How could he frame it?

"Even recently, I haven't thought much about the superhero line of work. I'm not that kind of guy," Ed spoke. Somehow the words came with ease. "I just want the quiet life, you know. The quiet life of a successful artist." He'd been practicing his drawing technique on and off for years. It was shaky as hell, and his commitment had wavered from time to time, but the feeling of pulling off some portraits right after so long was downright magical. 

"What field of art, if I may ask? Or, fields." Satya replied. 

"Drawing. Writing. Tried music, but the barrier to entry for that's too high. I can't be arsed to learn an instrument, but I can always pick up a keyboard or a pen and get to work," Ed replied.

"Interesting. And what's all the extreme weight-training about? Got anyone to impress?" Satya didn't place any menace that Ed could sense into the question. Was it idle curiosity? He couldn't be sure.

"Ha! Nah, I'm just really good at it, is all. Looks like my power does something for athletic ability as well. Got like this in a year," Ed said. He nodded his head toward his own body. Yet a new upwelling of fear that he couldn't quash rose within himself.

"So you're never going to _do_ anything with that power? This incredible gift you have?" Satya was still inquisitive, not accusatory. Ed felt slightly more at ease.

There was a fleeting silence as Ed took a few heartbeats to respond. "Not really, no. I thought contract work, but even with our food budget the way it is, Mom and I can still keep afloat. Just want to focus on myself and get my career started, and not stress myself out in college." True enough. He had pieces in the works - nothing too major - and some trusted acquaintances. Maybe they'd turn into something more when he finished.

Satya replied, "And I don't want to sound like I'm accusing you, but if you just stay here doing push-ups and making paintings, you think that's all the difference you can make? You've got some strength, and there's always someone out there needing saving. I'm sure your drawings make you very happy, and some others a little happy, but there's countless people out there burdened with great suffering you could help ease." And with that, this line of conversation was now heading into the bad territory Ed always braced himself for.

"As a matter of fact, they tell me my deadlift is better than the best unpowered man who ever lived, and same with the rest of my stats. At least in my tigerform, even Olympians using bikes and poles couldn't hope to keep up with my runs and leaps, and while transformed I've held a log upright over my head for five minutes straight. I didn't even find it too hard. All that's not to brag. I just… it seems like my power dovetails well with my desire to, ah, improve myself. There's a few spare logs in the yard. I could take you to see." Ed didn't take as much pride out of those accomplishments as the words suggested - after all, his power had been doing much of the work.

"No, thank you. In any case, our analysis tells us there's a little more to it than that," the agent added. Ed knew some of the details: his reflexes had improved to an inhuman degree, more in line with that of real tigers. His hands and legs _felt_ like they moved faster, his healing was faster, his whole body performed better even in a normal state. Of course, he'd never fought in his tigerform to know how it'd do in a bout.

"But, in any case… it seems like you could be the ideal material for the job. You've got the powers, the personality, and the desire for adventure… We could use a guy with straightforward strength, too. It's not like you couldn't be both a superhero and an artist at once. I know some who've done that trick." Satya was still upbeat and conversational, and here was a chance to properly end the conversation. And she was correct, but for starters, there were the career's demands… even the simplest of real jobs was harsher than school, Ed thought. It was bad enough to juggle studying and practicing. His dream burned fierce, and every time he felt he had to pick one or the other it could be agonizing. The guilt, shame, and dread came in spades and would get ten times worse with a very high-demand, high-performance career to take care of. Having to maintain the facade of anonymity, being on call at any moment, facing any of a myriad of life-threatening situations… would he keep up with the psychological demand of working toward his real dream at the same time? 

He didn't think so, really. He looked Satya straight in the eye once more, his expression becoming somber. "You know, I always thought that people who hated what they were good at just lacked perspective." 

To be valued for a talent one did not care for. Sometimes he dared to imagine his minor hobbies could turn into something more, turn into something meaningful that had impact on the world at large. Sometimes he even dared to think he could enrich others' lives in the same way so many works had enriched his, and the very idea tickled him pink. A minor thing, perhaps, but it gave him a purpose that others seemed to lack. All of it was coming tumbling down. Even if he didn't take up the offer -- in fact, he was now almost certain he wouldn't -- he'd still have the visible mark of his power sooner or later, and while the associated problems might be easily overcome, the effect on people's perception of him and the questions they would ask were almost certainly not. Not to mention the real physical dangers and the questions of safety. He could protect himself well enough, but his family? Even in the First World, even in the streets of America, villainy lurked in many places. Organized crime had people to serve as eyes and ears everywhere and those would certainly get past any security measure Ed could implement himself, given time. The tangled morass of complications threatened to end his career before it could even begin.

There was always anonymity, forgoing the trappings of fame just to be able to perform the craft. But anonymous creators rarely gathered much traction, and from the people he did speak to directly rumors might still spread and find their way to the underworld's ears. Fame as a hero would undermine fame as an artist, simply because of the concern for safety. He stole a glance at her as she idly gazed at her watch. He'd been thinking about this maybe thirty seconds too long, and it didn't matter to _her_ anyway. There were other ways he could enrich society, he wanted to point out. Working as one of the ever-controversial supercontractors, as he tried to point out, might well do as much or even more good in the long run, if sociology was to be believed at all. But there was no point in arguing with someone who wasn't speaking as _herself_ , but on behalf of her organization. 

The weight of Ed's dreams bearing heavily on his shoulders, he met her gaze yet again. "I appreciate the need for civic duty in this day and age. But I feel my effort's better directed to another place. I place a high value on my own fulfillment." In reality, he didn't care at all for duty, but she didn't pick up on the lie.

"But is your own feeling of value the only one you should take into account? Do you feel that one man's fulfillment is worth the life and limb of others?" she asked, her head suddenly cocking ever so slightly, her pupils narrowing. It felt pointed, like her politeness dropping away. The questioning glance Ed gave in response prompted her to continue.

Ed saw disappointment in the lines of Satya's eyes and mouth. "Let me put this another way. Just this week, there were over five dozen violent crimes and one murder in the city of San Jose alone. Beside various kinds of theft, there are also certain to be many arsons, aggravated assaults, and attempted kidnappings. It's rather hard to pinpoint knock-on effects, but thanks to UCR reporting it's been estimated that every additional Task Force member on patrol can cut crime in a multiple-city block sized area by half or even three quarters in ideal circumstances. That's more than ten times as much effect as an additional regular police officer, and with less expense and risk to everyone involved." The agent's features tightened a touch further. Evidently he was proving more difficult to court than she'd hoped. Trying to play the heartstrings wasn't going to work with Ed, though.

"Given that Task Force members rotate through locations often, that usually signifies cutting down violent crimes by huge margins in what are often problem neighborhoods in the most vulnerable cities. Maybe even more in your case, because your powerset is so combat-oriented. Is a small chance of artistic success really worth all that?" Her tone carried across an undercurrent of frustration beneath the professional mask. She still wasn't raising her voice or being _too_ accusatory, and he had a distinct feeling she was speaking a tad off-script, but it was still upsetting to have even a low-level confrontation all of a sudden. What few social alarms Ed had were going off at high volume in his head. His first instinct was to tell her off, but he restrained himself. He searched for a fact to cling onto. The odds of success. He remembered an old article in some Los Angeles art magazine about the exact topic.

His own expression tightened as well, but he tried not to cross the line into open resentment or anger. 

"0.002 percent for a writer to make it onto the New York Times bestseller's, less than forty-one percent odds of being reimbursed at all for an artist exhibiting in New York or the United Kingdom. That's if we're only counting making profit as success," Ed countered. He met tension with tension. And he knew that was less than ideal.

"... But I would argue profit isn't the best measure of having succeeded anyways, and what's it to you? Do I need to justify all of my decisions with detailed statistical analysis? It is a free country, and there's no _obligation_ to risk my life, limb, and sanity here." he continued. A part of him screamed he was in trouble and digging himself deeper, but she didn't press the issue. He tried to relax and appear laid-back.

"Not at all, and not to spill any personal details, but I've seen far too many people in poor areas who had promising lives, that could have been so beneficial to society taken away from them. And in far worse fashion. Death, injury, trauma… it's frustrating to me. Still, as you said, it is a free country... yet I'm reminded of the phrase 'ask not what your country can do for you'." Satya kept steady and neutral, but she'd probably gone _way_ off the script with that last quip. Ed almost snickered. _Paraphrasing Kennedy?_ She thought this discussion was that lofty? And he remembered that had been just before the age of the draft, when countless young men and women were sent to the jungles of Vietnam and Tanzania and Angola, only to achieve little of value in the end. 

Ed replied, increasingly desperate to end the conversation. "Well, at any rate, you're talking of our cities. I assume, at least, that I won't be shipped off to patrol the banks of the Vistula or the Zambezi River at eighteen right away?" Many powered over the decades had become well-known for participating in military operations, Ed knew. _Not least of all the Clements twins_ , he noted.

Satya's expression cooled as the subject changed. "No. Civilians don't often pay attention to this distinction. But international and military tasks are done by a smaller, entirely separate arm of the Task Force with separate management and personnel. If you sign on for a cadetship, you'll in all likelihood be bound for the continental forty-eight, Alaska, and Hawaii like most heroes." The neutrality remained, the hostile undertone ebbed. Ed thought she was retreating to a professional mode now that her plea, and the recruitment, had clearly failed.

Ed clasped his palms together without sound. Time for a proper turn-down. "Alright. I can't make you any promises, and I don't think I'm a good fit to be a real superhero, but I will think about it, and I'll have a solid answer for you before the end of this summer." Felt so strange to say that word, 'superhero', flat out. At least he ended on a happy note. Less definite an answer than he had hoped to give, but that was plenty of time. It was still late June.

The agent returned to something like her initial expression, almost appearing relieved, and curtly handed Ed a few brochures. 

"Thank you. Here's the contact information when you make your decision, and more details we didn't have time to go over." In this day and age Ed guessed it would be trivial look it all up, but it was still a needed formality, he supposed. He nodded as she picked herself up again, grabbed her bag, and exchanged a few harsher, less-friendly words with his mother. As before, no open rancor, but Mom sure didn't look or sound too pleased with Satya this time.

As she pulled out of the driveway and beyond Ed's sight, his mother came back, some lines of annoyance on her face. It still made him sad to see her bothered. 

"Como fue? Ella te trato bien?" 

"…No podre esconder mi poder para siempre, ella me dijo. Va a venir mas y mas y algún día, me quedare tigre para siempre. Recomendó que entrara al programa escolar de la fuerza," Ed replied, summarizing the events. He just wanted a way, any way, to not think of his approaching and inevitable outing. 

"No lo voy hacer." A simple statement, but the most confident one he'd made all day. He expected to be relieved, but somehow his mood was sinking further now that Satya was gone and he was practically alone with his thoughts.

"Ay, que no. Mira. Que no envíen mi bebe a África o Polonia. Si te pasara algo, Dios libre." An exaggerated pout on her expression, she reached out and wiped some stray hairs out of Ed's face. Her tone was similarly shifted for effect.

"Pero acuérdate. Tan siempre que no sea algo así, siempre estaré detrás de ti, pase lo que pase." She grabbed his shoulders firmly to emphasize the point. It was funny. She didn't seem at all worried that he'd be stuck permanently in tigerform in a matter of less than a few years, somehow. Probably just compartmentalized the worry for later. He so envied that ability.

"No voy a ningún sitio," he assured her. She was possibly the one truly, totally supportive person he had in this life, something which he valued beyond all logical measure. Her happiness felt like it really mattered.

***

Ed tried to carry on as normal the rest of the day, showering to then practice his line making, architectural perspective, and gesture drawing. The last one always felt the most rewarding. Every time he left feeling like he had not only enjoyed himself, but accomplished something and had advanced his skills. Dinner that evening was just a store brand of soup; his calorie requirements this week were met, and he would return to his workout routine tomorrow afternoon. He spent some time at night working on a fantasy manuscript, adding words in fits and starts as the inspiration struck and jamming it with online acquaintances over voice and text chat. He finished the activities of the day with a brief session of his favorite flight simulator. 

But over it all hung dread, and the reality he had learned of and couldn't ignore no matter what: one way or another, things were never going to be quite normal again.


End file.
